Chains
by DeshUndein
Summary: What could happen to Oleg and Sergey, if Volkov had survived the events in Venice. Disclaimer: Major Thunder does not belong to me.


_All that we see or seem  
Is but a dream within a dream._

E.A. Poe

* * *

January 20 2017, Nigeria

The visibility was limited due to the desert dust brought by the wind but the operation could wait no longer. The threat to the lives of the hostages held inside the school grew with each passing minute. They had taken position around the building a good hour ago but the headquarters insisted on waiting for the most convenient moment.

\- Alpha ready – he whispered into the miniature mic, fixed inside the helmet - We're moving in in half a minute.

He did not wait for the confirmation, there was no need, only glanced briefly at others, positioned exactly where he ordered. The sniper lying on the roof did not signal any warnings. Checking the watch he gave the sign to go. He crossed the short distance to the school in several long leaps. The rickety door gave hardly any resistance, so he kicked it without hesitance and jumped in. Few shots of his Masada and the members of Boko Haram fell to the floor. Seconds later mercenaries flooded the room. He did not listen to them shouting orders to take the hostages outside and to the safety zone. It was done. He took a look around the classroom marked with bullet holes. Nobody else could have been hiding there, so he left with the others.

\- Wolf – one of the mercenaries touched his arm - We've moved the hostages. We need to...

\- I know – he interrupted – We need to make further reconnaissance and find this sonovabitch.

\- Stay here and we'll send some backup. Adam will cover you from the roof.

He nodded in answer but he had not the slightest intention on waiting at least twenty minutes for more mercenaries to arrive. The hostages were safe, so he could move on to the next part of the contract himself. He waited a couple of minutes so as to make sure that no one would follow him and warily re-entered the school. It was quiet and empty but for the four corpses. He quickly checked their pockets to find nothing special except for a crumpled packet of cigs. He hesitated but eventually dropped it on the dusty, bloodied floor. Coming cautiously to the window he scanned the closest area. It seemed peaceful, as if their action had gone unnoticed. He didn't like that but he was too impatient to wait any longer. According to the info, the target was located in the southern part of the city inside one of the recently ruined administration quarters. Keeping his rifle ready he left the school and went ahead to the nearest house. Its walls were singed from the fires and had partially collapsed so he hoped not to come across anyone here.

\- Wolf! - Adam shouted, albeit quietly, in his headphones – What the fuck are you doing? Come back!

\- Fuck off – was his answer – I can't let Sikhe escape.

\- Volkov! It's not a one-man action!- the sniper was pissed not only due to his insubordination but also because of the direct usage of the target's name. Oleg took off the helmet, breaking off the communication. He covered his face with the wrap he had wisely opted to take, before leaving the headquarters in the morning. Now it has proven useful, protecting his nose from the dust and sand. He ran hastily from one burned house to another through the town that had been abandoned completely. Boko Haram fighters were merciless to the civilians. Killing all, except for young women, was their standard procedure. Corpses were still lying in the streets. He took neither time nor pity to honour them. He was a mercenary himself and at least one more man was destined to die of his hand in this town. He covered more than half of the distance towards the target's supposed location when he spotted the first black skinned warrior. Unnoticed, he grabbed the knife and sneaked up on him silently. After the Boko Haram slumped to the floor with slit throat, Oleg hid in the shade cast by the only surviving wall of the low building and hugged the wall . He clutched the shotgun in his hands revelling in the rush of blood flowing through his body. He felt his heart rate accelerating. This was it, this was the reason he became a soldier. This adrenaline high, the danger and the enticing feeling of his own mortality. The stream of consciousness has narrowed down to the rifle held in his hands, the battle perimeter and potential enemies. He gave up the protective shade of the wall and ran further. He was coming close to one of the two biggest buildings in the town. One of them was occupied by Ayodele Sikhe. He decided to rely on luck and chose the less damaged one, two storied, situated more to the left. He got into it with no trouble at all. A short volley of his shotgun got rid of two rebel guards and at the same time forced him to hurry. Though not really loud, the shots were certainly within the target's hearing range. He leapt up the stairs three steps at a time not minding some that got crushed under his feet. Suddenly his way was blocked by a tall rebel wearing a tactical vest. Luckily he go a clear shot at the enemy's head, pushed aside the limp body and dived through the room, reaching the last door. Some feral sense told him that the target was behind it. He decided to barge into it, exactly like the last time. It proved not to be exactly the best idea. The impact tore the door off its hinges and it crashed into the room. There was only one person inside, a tall black man with explosives belt fixed around his waist. For a second Wolf thought about retreating to the corridor but soon it turned out he would not be granted the precious time. Sikhe's ironic smirk was the last thing Oleg saw before covering his face with his left hand. The explosion threw him onto the brittle wall like a rag doll and everything collapsed like a house of cards.

* * *

Under the high military shoes he saw the floor of black and white squares. The chessboard was shiny and lustrous as if freshly scrubbed and polished. The room seemed to have no walls and the dusk was coming at him from all sides. There was also this unnatural silence. He raised his head and met the teary gaze of blue eyes he knew so well. Only a few meters from him the lithe, small figure quivered in fright. Sergei appeared exactly the same as he remembered him from the beginning of their friendship when he saw him in the backyard of the orphanage for the first time. Wearing an oversized woolly with an image of an owl sewed on it, his bright orange hair ruffled, he held an armful of pictures and crayons to his chest. There was something out of place in this picture-perfect childhood memory. A black, leather collar squeezed the tiny neck, flashing ominously with the bluish light from the round plastic badge bearing the chess-piece symbol. The light was also coming from underneath the redhead but Oleg could not see any lamps.

\- Oleg – Sergei's voice was trembling with fear – I'm scared...

The mercenary clenched his fist involuntarily. Only then did he notice the object he must have been holding for a while. He raised it to his eye level. The touchscreen of the phone was white save for the bright red "start" button right in the middle. He looked at his friend – baby blue eyes were wide with terror, it seemed that Sergei knew what would happen next. Oleg knew that too but for the life of him, could not stop his own hand which inevitably drew nearer to the screen. Could not withdraw the finger that pressed so swift and light. He moved his gaze from the phone to his friend's motionless silhouette and noticed the badge on Sergei's collar started shimmering with red light. The black king symbol exploded, turning the little boy's neck into bloody mess. Sheets of paper with drawings spilled onto the floor and sank in the growing pool of blood. Oleg was not able to utter a single sound. He observed all of this, frozen to the spot, unable to move. Unexpectedly he felt a small needle of pain in his left arm. Then again, stronger. It started to pulse and suddenly all hell broke loose and molten lava flowed through his arm instead of blood. The phone fell out of his stiff hand, and the mercenary himself slumped to his knees. The pain became unbearable. He heard some noise, people shouting, and he opened his eyes. He was lying in a military tent turned into an infirmary. He recalled what had happened. A glance to the side – one of the medics tended to his wound.

\- Lie still, Volkov – the doctor noticed his patient regaining consciousness – You're lucky. No need to amputate.

\- The target... - Oleg struggled to ask.

\- Don't try to talk. You'll get some fentanyl.

He agreed with a nod, he was far too weak to protest or discuss anyway. He closed his eyes in hope for some sleep to relieve the pain, but it was not so easy. Finally he felt the world fade and all the noise and the pain with it. He lost consciousness again.

* * *

Commander Anton Sokolov in light uniform with Moran insignia strolled along the shorter side of the tent with his arms crossed behind his back. He was quite upset, although "upset" did a really poor job to describe all the agitation visible on his face.

\- You've gone too far, Volkov – he said at last, stopping in front of Oleg, who sat on some makeshift chair, clutching his left hand in an equally makeshift sling – Why the fuck didn't you wait for backup? I thought I gave a clear order not to charge?

\- The hostages were free – the mercenary's voice was calm and collected.

\- That was not a reason to risk your life and the life of the crew!

\- I couldn't see how they were in any danger?

\- The fuck I care what you saw and what you didn't! - Sokolov yelled jumping at the other man. He was so pissed that a pulsing vein appear on his forehead – You almost got screwed!

\- The hostages were set free – the mercenary repeated in a dead serious tone – The target got eliminated. Mission complete.

\- Does your life have any value for you, Volkov? - Sokolov's voice was still shaking but the commander seemed a bit calmer – Since you've been back, you seem to have some sort of a death wish.

The wounded man once more looked at his superior but said nothing more. His eyes did not reflect the thoughts that came to his mind. Perhaps it was exactly like Sokolov imagined? Maybe he wanted to die. In an explosion, from a bullet, it didn't matter... Just to break free from everything. From those nightmares invading his dreams every night. The commander's voice brought him to reality.

\- Moran has to terminate your contract for now. We cannot allow such insubordination in our ranks. You put our reputation at stake, Volkov. You are entitled to make use of the company's health care in Russia and that's it.

Oleg nodded and rose from the chair, supporting himself with his healthy right hand. He should have supposed that this lone raid could lead to this, so these words were not entirely unexpected. He was about to exit, when the commander's voice stopped him.

\- Get a grip on yourself, man, it would be a pity for you to go to waste. Do something with your life and then you can come back to us.

* * *

June 15 2017, St Petersburg

He went through the automatic doors, that slid apart noiselessly a second before. Dark jeans and a black t-shirt were his choice of clothes for today. The rest of the civilian stuff he packed into the sports bag carried on his right arm. As usual, the bandage attracted curious glances. He kept his left arm wrapped though it had already healed quite well. Subconsciously, he started walking towards the nearest underground entrance, yet he decided to stay in the street for a while. To be quite frank, he was not keen on getting onto the train. Instead, he took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one up. Immediately he caught the hungry look of some homeless sot, clad in dirty, smelly rags. You could find one of those in every European city. Finally, he threw the butt to the ground and a half-empty pack onto the lap of the dirty bum, who turned out to be stunningly deft in catching it. He did not listen to the gibbered thanks.

* * *

After a long hesitation, Wolf eventually pushed the iron gate. It came open reluctantly, with a loud creak. He strolled between the lanes of gravestones not bothering to read the names, as was his old childhood habit. His destination, however, was the same now as it was then. The tomb was rather unimposing and weedy. Seemed like nobody took care of it for a long, long time. His parents rested beneath the stone for more than twenty years. The only thing he could do for them was to clean the grave and try to arrange neatly at least some of the plants covering the spot with a lush carpet. In the past, he did not like to come here, for the place reminded him of the greatest loss he experienced. Now, the silence of the graveyard and almost leisurely work with the greenery brought him peace of mind. Commander Sokolov was right – he should have done something with his life after the incident three years ago. He could not play the turn of past events in his mind over and over again rubbing salt into the wounds left by all the deaths that he thought he could have prevented. He blamed himself for being too trustful in his old friend and not smart enough to notice the change inside him. Had he seen Sergei's problems earlier, perhaps he would have been able to save his people from gruesome death. Unfortunately he did not realize Razumovsky's striving for sanity until it was too late. Oleg sighed heavily, looking at the clean tombstone. He bent for the last time to remove one more weed. Without further ado, he turned around and set onto the next place he visited often. The place that was even more neglected than his parents' grave. Again today, he began an arduous struggle with crazed vegetation . Slowly, he peeled off the moss, uncovering the names written in the stone. He knew them obviously. What bothered him however, was the question whether the redhead had ever been here. Had he ever visited his parents' resting place? Whatever the answer was, right now Wolf did for them more than he himself could hope to get after his death. Nobody was going to mourn him in the future, for he had always been a loner. Now he was literally left alone. His family and colleagues from the team died and his best friend was as good as dead after his attempt to kill him. Volkov did not know where Sergei was and he was not entirely sure if he wanted to know. He would gladly leave the ghosts of the past behind him. They, however were not quite willing to let him go from their grasp.

* * *

Arina Hostel in Ligovsky Prospect was not particularly pretty, but it was clean. And cheap, which was of more importance to a couple of poor students. Katia and Ilya came for holiday to Petersburg two days ago. They had little trouble in finding the lodging as the high season hadn't really begun yet. Only one guest beside them was staying at the hostel.. The girl was pretty distressed with such a neighbour. The guy seemed to be a soldier, who got back from some sort of a military conflict in the Middle East. His arm was wrapped and his brow always furrowed, overall giving off a dangerous vibe. Katia claimed "such kind can't be trusted, cause you never know what could come to their mind". Ilya ridiculed her absurd anxiety. One evening, however, even he felt uneasy. They were sitting on the sofa, watching some show when a strange sound reached their ears.

\- Ilya... - the girl whispered glancing into her boyfriend's eyes – Did you hear that?

\- Mhm – he smiled reassuringly to Katia – Must be something in this dumb prog... - The lingering cry interrupted his words. It came from the room next door, occupied by this army guy. It sounded like a howl mixed with scream. Ilya was not entirely sure if a human being could make such a sound. Full of despair and regret, the voice was more likely to belong to a fierce animal.

\- What if he keeps a giant fighting dog in his room? - Katia was still whispering nervously.

\- Impossible, they wouldn't let him keep a dog in here.

Again the blood-curdling howl pierced the walls. It was the middle of the night, they have already had some booze and their imagination ran wild. Still, they decided to check what was going on. Ilya stood up first and boldly went to the door.

\- Ilya, maybe he's a werewolf? - the girl caught his hand – It's almost as if we're in some horror and we're going to poke the tiger instead of barricading inside our room.

\- Don't be silly, it's not a full moon, anyways.

Warily they both entered the hall. Ilya knocked on the next door and jumped when heard the howl for an answer. They were just about to turn tail when everything fell silent. The couple heard steps from inside the room and abruptly the door opened. Their neighbour stood tall with the usual scowl on his face but the anger did not reach his brown eyes. If someone looked closely, they would rather see the torment inside them.

\- Um...- Ilya stuttered awkwardly gazing upwards, as the man was taller by a head – Is everything alright?

\- None of your business – the soldier growled and slammed the door shut. The student stood stupefied for a second but when he saw Katia's silly expression, he began to giggle. He took her hand and pulled her down the corridor.

\- There you have your thriller, scaredy-pants!

After some time and some more drinks, they both laughed at their own foolishness.

* * *

The knocking literally knocked him out of the trance he got in every time he wanted to rid his mind of the unwanted memories and painful thoughts. He realized that once more he tried to remove the sadness and anger in this unusual way. It never worked, though... Instead of relief it brought him more of the sense of helplessness and grief. Nobody in the world could make it easier, none would even want to try. He never had many friends but now there was not even one left. Max that was the closest to this definition, had passed away. Sergei who had always been so close, who was more important than anyone else, had betrayed him in the cruellest of ways... Miserable and lonely, abandoned by people, yet, the wolf lived. The thing was, he did not have the slightest idea what to do with his life. Almost all of his adulthood he had been a mercenary; this job, though profitable, didn't bring opportunities to tie any close relationships. After the massacre in Venice he didn't like staying long in one place. The thought came to his mind to set a meeting with a therapist, but he abandoned it eventually. What more could they tell him? Post-traumatic stress disorder! He knew it was not only that. All his life he experienced loss. First his parents. Years later when he enrolled in the army, his best friend left him flat. Now, his team had been killed and in this – again – he lost Sergei, who had been miraculously found less than a month before.

* * *

Few days later Oleg returned to the well-known airport. This city suffocated him, but he could not bring himself to leave it behind once and for all. He packed all his belongings and took a cab to Pulkovo to fly to another war. After breaking the contract with Moran, finding another job proved to be a bit more difficult, but he had his ways on the free market. His name had a good reputation in this environment and it let him find new contracts swiftly. He wanted to make connections and busy himself with continuous work so as not to have time for thinking. Action, fight, the smell of sweat, blood and gun powder soothed his nerves. Kill or be killed. Anything, not to sit idle in one spot.


End file.
